


the fume of sighs

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealous Hannibal, Therapy Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: An old lover reappears in Bedelia's life. Hannibal is not too happy about it.





	the fume of sighs

It is the most beautiful of sights, the tiny curve of lips, corners lifting up gently, accentuating the alluring lines around her mouth. Bedelia Du Maurier does not use her smile lightly and Hannibal leaps at every chance to savour it. But as bewitching as the view is, his enjoyment is presently coloured by a hue of dismay as he is not the recipient of her fondness.

Hannibal watches his psychiatrist from across the room, surrounded by a flock of men and women, all peering over her every word and gesture. He is not surprised; she looks ravishing tonight in a navy dress, silk shimmering softly under the lights of the chandeliers, or rather it is her skin that is glowing, bare to below the waist in the back. He watches the elegant curve of her spine, topped by elaborate waves of her locks, washing gently over the shore of her shoulders. It is unusual to see at such event, even less so in such attire, a striking contrast to her customary Chanel tweed. Hannibal does not know why she has chosen to grace the retirement dinner for the chief of surgery with her presence, but it is not important. The only thing that matters is her. His thumb strokes the stem of his glass, envisioning the feel of her skin against his fingers. He can almost sense the warmth of her body seeping through his fingertips. Suddenly the glass is that much colder to touch as his musings turn into distant longing.

Under normal circumstances, he would have joined the group a long time ago, eager to bask in her beauty and intelligence, but something out of the ordinary stopped him in his tracks. An appearance of a man by her side. Hannibal has scrutinised him immediately, standing that much closer to her than other patrons and looking unusually _familiar_ with Bedelia, indicating he was more than just a random guest flocking to her irresistible presence. A tall man in his late thirties, blond hair and a trim stature, one that can be considered _handsome_ , but in a mundane and obvious kind of manner. Hannibal has not seen the man before and wonders what his association with the guest of honour is. He wonders if he is Bedelia’s date for the evening, a thought that sets his pulse racing instantly, blood pumping loud in his ears. Or perhaps she is _his date_ ; she does not normally frequent such events after all. Somehow this version makes his blood run hotter still.

His guessing game turning into flashes of unexpected anger, Hannibal sets down his empty glass and takes a fresh one from a tray of a passing waiter as he finally makes his way towards the gathering he has been surveying.

“Oh Hannibal, how lovely to see you,” one of the benefactors of the hospital exclaims upon his arrival, manicured hand ready to snatch his arm, but Hannibal barely offers her a smile, his eyes only on Bedelia and her _companion_.

“Doctor Du Maurier, how _unexpected_ to see you,” he speaks at once, ignoring the remaining guests and the ongoing conversation. It is rude, but he does not care.

“Hello, Hannibal,” she responds calmly, lifting a glass to her lips, a gesture of dismissal or unease, he cannot tell.

Even enclosed by a myriad of scents, he can distinguish hers instantly, swirling towards him through the other insignificant aromas like a siren call, caressing his nose in the most enticing way. He senses sweetness undercutting the amber, reminding him of a summer evening in sun drenched Tuscany, a place he finds more suited for Bedelia than this tedious event. Or company.

“I don’t believe we have met,” cataloguing the notes away, Hannibal wastes no time in addressing the man standing next to her, a façade of perfect manners upon his face. He smiles pleasantly, but his eyes glare at the man, each new detail processed with care. He can sense Bedelia shifting in her spot; he is certain his pretence does not fool her in the slightest. But her companion does not share her sharp perception.

“John Rose,” the man extends his hand while a charming smile appears on his lips; it reminds Hannibal of a real estate agent trying to make his first sale. His name is certainly fitting the profile.

“Hannibal Lecter,” he shakes his hand firmly, silently inspecting the man’s grip; he can sense his pulse beating faintly from beneath his sleeve.

“Oh, the famous Doctor Lecter,” John responds with a nod of his head as if being able to put a face to a name at last.

The notion that Bedelia has spoken about him flatters Hannibal enormously; he suddenly stands taller, his chest pressing forward like a proud peacock, a genuine flicker in his eyes.

“Apparently you were the best surgeon in the emergency room. They still grieve the lost of your talent to psychiatry,” the man continues.

The gleam in Hannibal’s eyes fades at once. An amused smirk passes over Bedelia’s lips; she does not let it settle on her face, but Hannibal notices it, nonetheless.

“I have found psychiatry to be much more _fulfilling_ ,” his gaze falls on Bedelia anew, but her face remains emotionless, her undoubtedly intricate thoughts hidden from him. It infuriates and fascinates him all at once. “And I have the utmost pleasure of having a talented colleague like Doctor Du Maurier,” he adds truthfully, this time earning him a pleased purse of her lips.

It delights him more than he would ever care to admit. Attempting not to disclose his need for Bedelia’s attention, he tilts his head, now examining the man’s reaction, but he does not acknowledge the praise for his companion. How _rude_.

“How do you know Doctor Du Maurier?” Hannibal turns the conversation back to the subject of his scrutiny, striving to keep his voice as disinterested as possible, but the thumping in his ears is getting louder, pressing against his temples.

“We did our residency placement together,” the man responds, turning to Bedelia and smiling at the apparently pleasant memory, but she does not respond, her eyes remaining focused on Hannibal.

“Visiting an old colleague then?” smiling, Hannibal prompts not so subtly and Bedelia’s gaze narrows instantly.

“Something like that,” the man responds with a knowing smile of his own, betraying nothing and everything at once.

_Not just a colleague, but an old flame._

Hannibal’s jaw tenses, the smile frozen on his lips like a grotesque mask, with sudden gleams of red within the dark irises of his eyes.

“This is not a good vintage. I would like another glass of wine,” Bedelia breaks the bubble of tension slowly growing in the space between them.

Hannibal’s mouth twitches and settles back in its neutral expression, his eyes immediately searching for the nearest waiter, only to discover that she was not addressing him. Crestfallen, he watches as she turns to her companion, an unfinished drink in her raised hand clearly indicating her need.

“Enjoy your evening, Hannibal,” she gives him a final, brief glance, somehow wounding him more than any indifference could. And with that farewell, she walks away in the direction of the bar.

“It was nice meeting you, Doctor Lecter,” the man follows her at once.

Hannibal’s gaze does not leave them, the grip around his own glass taut when he sees Bedelia slipping her hand around the man’s arm.

“Is everything all right, Hannibal?” the voice behind him comes as though from a great distance. He startles, suddenly remembering the other patrons, still standing behind him, silent witnesses to the whole exchange like a chorus of an impending tragedy.

“Yes, thank you,” the smile returns to his lips as if by the flick of a switch, his perfect visage of politeness once again whole.

But the same cannot be said about the glass in his hand; his clasp tightens until he hears a faint pop and a crack appears on the side of the glass. Relaxing his hold, he watches it curiously; the splinter seems to mirror the one currently etching in his heart.

 

“Did you enjoy the dinner, Doctor?”

In a different home and with a different glass of wine in his hand, Hannibal has patiently waited until the end of the session to bring up the subject that had been on his mind since that last weekend’s event. He cradles the glass with utmost care, fingers barely touching the glass. Just in case.

“Yes, I did,” Bedelia responds slowly, her gaze surveying him with suspicion, “Thank you,” she adds, taking a tentative sip of her wine, red staining her lips and accentuating its curve.

Hannibal contemplates how the wine would taste paired with the flavour of her skin. The possible flavours swirl in his mind, making him feel lightheaded all the sudden; he licks his own lips absentmindedly.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself as well,” Bedelia speaks again when he fails to continue the conversation, shifting the focus back to him with professional ease.

The flavours on Hannibal’s mind turn sour, making his lips quaver involuntarily.

“It was an _interesting_ evening,” he settles for a half-truth, washing the words from his tongue with the mouthful of wine.

The remainder of his evening was less than pleasant. He promptly followed Bedelia and her companion, trying to manoeuvre his way through the guests without attracting anyone’s attention and keeping his distance at all time, but after another shared drink, they both disappeared from his line of sight. His sharp eyes swept the room, not leaving any corner uninspected, but he could not find them anywhere. The only possible conclusion was that they must have left.

 _Left together_.

The deep crimson coloured his vision again as he fought to keep his instincts at bay. He left shortly afterwards, no doubt among growing whispers about his uncommon abruptness. But he did not care for any of it, the other patrons nothing more than faceless dust in his mind.

Upon returning home, he sat down in front of his tablet at once, a glass of sherry in his hand, determined to find out as much as possible about Bedelia’s companion. The task proved easy; the man was not careful with his privacy settings. And enjoyed good press.

Numerous entries about his charity work in various medical organisations occupied the search page, each article adorned with a picture of his smiling face. Hannibal imagined the smile turning into a distort of surprise right before his neck would snap. The sound of bones cracking echoed in Hannibal’s mind, hollow and sharp, clearing his thoughts. He continued the search, his determined face illuminated by the glare of the screen, its ghostly visage mirroring his apprehension.

His glass was long empty when he finally turned off the tablet with a resigned sigh. Apart for one brief fail in social grace he had witnessed, he could not find any fault in the man. An ideal example of good-on-paper type. The conclusion did not lessen Hannibal’s vexation and, for once, it had nothing to do with his empty pantry.

No matter how proper he seemed to be, _he was not good enough for Bedelia_.

Sitting in the dark, Hannibal’s thoughts wrangled like twisting snakes, hissing and spouting poison into his mind. But he had no way of finding out the true nature of their relationship. Not without a direct enquiry.

Now with that question gnawing on his mind, like a fang still buried deep and oozing slow venom, he focuses his gaze on the glass in a gesture of uncommon reserve.

“Did your colleague have a safe journey home?”

 _Boston._ He nearly lets the word slip of his tongue, betraying his knowledge, but he swallows it at the last second. Yet the enquiry is enough to alert Bedelia, her head inclining in a sign of roused curiosity, his question like a drop of blood in the water she promptly detected. And she never misses a chance to hunt for further knowledge; it is one of the qualities he adores about her most.

“John remains in Baltimore,” she offers him the truth unexpectedly, a bait no doubt, but he lets her reel him in, eyes wide and jaw tensed as he takes in the new information. “A job negotiation,” she adds offhandedly and takes a mouthful of her wine, observing his reaction, eyes sharp and gleaming. He could spend hours swimming in their blue expanse.

“Returning to his alma mater?” Hannibal asks in the same casual manner, hoping his genuine disinterest in the man’s career will hide his true intentions. The implications of the man taking permanent residence here were mounting pressure on his already unbalanced restrain.

“He has always considered returning to Baltimore,” Bedelia comments, offering nothing more, the brief experiment having proven successful as she has drawn him in and now watches him struggle on the hook on his own making.

Hannibal savours his wine; it tastes like vinegar on his tongue and does nothing to soothe his thoughts. His knuckles turn white, a stark contrast to the hue of the drink; he slowly unclenches his fist, watching his fingers quiver impatiently.

“Perhaps he has considered returning to something more than merely his job,” the words slip pass his lips in a moment of imprudence, the strain on his mind in dire need of vent.

His eyes lift from his glass and meet Bedelia’s. The sparks in her gaze are set aflame instantly.

“You appear to be caring a lot about a man you have barely met,” her words are purposely misleading as she continues to watch him tussle at the end of her line.

The coolness in her voice is even more chilling compared to the fire in her eyes; he cannot look away.

“Hannibal, it is not your place to concern yourself with my personal life,” she states firmly and waits for him to respond, her stare issuing a challenge that remains unmet.

Finally, she places her glass aside with a conclusive clink; Hannibal knows their evening is over. She walks him towards the door without a word and barely nods when he bids her good bye. The falling dusk suddenly feels warm comparing to the biting coldness he left in his wake behind the now closed door.

 

The night leaves him restless, his mind anything but at ease. The scraps of facts only make his thoughts more ravenous, demanding conclusions. They suddenly have an existence of their own, moving freely from his mind palace to his heart, leaving a trail of rapid pulse in its wake. Hannibal tries to give a name to his feelings.

 _Jealousy_.

It is not like him to succumb to something so ordinary. It is in his nature to take and make his needs a reality, no matter the cost. But this is different. He wishes for Bedelia to want him the same way he longs for her, an unusual notion, utterly foreign to him and making him inept in a process. The idea that she might desire someone else, and someone _so plain_ to boot, is like a steadily bleeding wound, bringing a strange sensation of sorrow he has never thought would inflict him to settle in his heart.

Bedelia deserves _more_ , but he does not know how to make her see that. For now, he decides to continue the enquiry into his competitor. He compiles a list of hotels the man like him is likely to stay in. He finds him on his second phone call; The Four Seasons, how predictably ostentatious.

The crystalline sound of bones breaking resonates in his mind anew as he sets off to the hotel that very evening.

 

His sure steps announce a clear purpose as he walks through the main door of the hotel, even if his mind has yet to settle on the aim of his visit here. Still, he makes his way to the bar with the same conviction as though he were a frequent visitor.

But it is not the case and for a good reason; a poolside bar is hardly appealing to his taste. Nor is the wine list, lacking severely in Hannibal’s opinion. He orders a bottle of Belgian beer instead, not his usual beverage of choice, but he is not here to enjoy himself; he settles himself in a corner chair, giving him the best viewpoint of the area and its entrance.

Slowly, the space becomes crowded, the jarring ensemble of voices accompanied by the music of glasses and bottles clinking, mostly out of town business men and women looking to relieve the pressure of the day or celebrate their successes. Hannibal has no doubt Doctor Rose will join them soon enough, subconsciously hoping it will the former he will be drinking to.

He almost smiles upon having his assumptions confirmed; a familiar face of the man he has been studying so scrupulously appears in the entrance. But his satisfaction is short lived for he is not alone, and his companion is none other than Bedelia. His heart wails in despair as he immediately reconsiders his plan of coming here. But it is too late to retreat now.

He watches them enter the bar, his gaze focused on his psychiatrist, her vision like a work of art. Her dress is more casual this time around, but not any less alluring, the cut of the red fabric accentuating her cleavage and waist in a subtle and elegant way but making the nature of this evening quite obvious. Hannibal sighs quietly; he loves her in red.

“Doctor Lecter?” the man and his _date_ approach the bar and Hannibal cannot help but notice Bedelia’s arm encircling the man’s once more, a definitive sign of affinity.

One might say they make an attractive couple; Hannibal would have to disagree.

“Good evening, Doctor Rose,” despite the red mist slowly percolating through his mind, Hannibal remembers his manners, “Doctor Du Maurier,” he inclines his head towards Bedelia, almost contrite in a way. But she is not misled; he can see her anger edging closer to the brim of her composure.

“How unexpected to see you here,” John continues, his brow furrowing in doubt at this strange coincidence.

The man is not completely clueless, it seems, but it does not change Hannibal’s perception of him in the slightest.

“I was in the vicinity and decided to stop by for a drink,” Hannibal offers them his most charming smile, “They have a wonderful selection of European beers.”

Bedelia presses her lips in contempt at his flimsy cover story.

“Oh, I was not aware of that. We should try it then,” the man turns his head to Bedelia who smiles politely but says nothing.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow; he knows for a fact that Bedelia dislikes beer. The man must not know her that well, even with their shared past. It gives him some satisfaction, but it also upsets him, knowing that John does not strive to look after her needs, no matter how small. He wishes he could whisk Bedelia away to a much more appropriate location with a selection of best wines for her perusal.

“A cause for celebration?” Hannibal asks with pretended thoughtlessness. His eyes are resting on John, but he can sense Bedelia seething; he is surprised his skin is not burning under her reprimanding fire of a stare.

“Yes, I hope so,” the man responds but his head tilts in a pensive manner as if he were examining the root of Hannibal’s enquiry. His gaze falls briefly on Bedelia, but her expression remains as unsolvable as ever.

“Well, we should be going. We do not want to disturb you, Hannibal,” she speaks at last, each word laced with a warning.

“That is quite all right,” he answers briskly, “I was about to leave anyway,” he motions to his long empty glass and buttons up his jacket, straightening its line.

“I wish you a pleasant evening,” it takes some effort on Hannibal’s part to flourish these words with a smile, no matter how faint, his muscles rebelling all the sudden, “Good night.”

This time he gives Bedelia a rushed glance before turning to leave, equal measures of longing and a heartfelt promise of a much better evening if she had chosen to spend it with him. He does not dare to look over his shoulder, but he knows Bedelia is watching his every step, ensuring his departure.

He exits the bar, but does not leave the hotel, lingering close to the bar entrance, searching for the best spot to observe without being seen. With no better options, he chooses a seat on a nearby sofa, hidden behind a plant and giving him a partial view of the main bar and its patrons. But it is good enough for him to see the one person he cannot take his eyes off. Bedelia’s golden hair shine like a beacon even under the unflattering light fixtures of the pool.

Hannibal watches as her companion orders drinks and smirks with satisfaction as she shakes her head, declining the offer of a glass of beer placed in front of her. The waiter removes the drink and brings her a glass of red wine instead. Hannibal hopes it is an adequate vintage. Not being able to hear their conversation, he is left to observe them in silence, taking notes of their body language.

The man must have received good news indeed, his cheerful manner indicating he is currently recalling the details of his meeting to Bedelia. She smiles at him while her hand reaches to toss her hair over her shoulder inattentively. It might be a gesture of flirtation, but Hannibal hopes it is merely a habitual mannerism. His heart continues to sink lower with every moment they spend together.

A faint trickle of hope finds its way to the wasteland of his emotions when Bedelia and John prepare to leave after only one drink. It takes him a moment to realise he will be discovered if he does not move, his strange sentimental demeanour impairing his usual instincts. He stands up instantly and disappears in the back of the lobby, keeping his eyes on the main hall, expecting to see John walking Bedelia out any second now. But no one comes.

Minutes pass and he decides to abandon his spot and return to the corridor, again careless in his steps. He sees them at once, the only two people walking down the long aisle. Walking towards the elevators leading to the rooms.

Hannibal stops and so does his heart. He quickly shakes away his stupor before his presence is discovered and moves as close to the couple as he can, hiding behind the nearest corner. He tries not to consider the apparent conclusion to their evening, but visions of Bedelia in this man’s bed swim before his eyes, stirring his anger to a boiling point. His fingers wraps around the edge of the wall, pressing firmly as he tries to control the last shred of his composure, peeling away rapidly. He observes as the man presses the button of the lift and turns to Bedelia; Hannibal does not hear the words he says, but he can clearly see him leaning forward and kissing her.

Hannibal’s brittle heart plunges into the depths of hopelessness. He can do nothing but watch as she reciprocates the kiss with an ease that suggests rekindling of old lovers. It lasts several seconds, but it feels like a lifetime to Hannibal, the image still replaying in the private purgatory of his mind, long after their lips part. John continues to hold Bedelia close and Hannibal is on the verge of abandoning his cover and tearing the man’s throat open.

But his desire for blood is stopped when John speaks and Bedelia suddenly tenses in his arms. There is a flicker of disapproval in her eyes, one that Hannibal recognises even from a distance and she takes a step back from the man. He continues to talk, and her expression grows warier still. Her responses seem short and undoubtedly sharp as she slowly seals away the few morsels of herself, she has allowed him to see. The colder she becomes, the more upset the man seems, now gesturing behind him, his hand as though pointing directly at Hannibal. It is impossible, of course, as he remains well hidden, but it makes him consider a possibility that he is the cause of the man’s irritation. An unexpected turn of the tables, but Hannibal has no time to enjoy the irony, as he watches the argument unfold. Whether the source of the exchange was, Bedelia is having none of it. He can tell when the conversation is over by a decisive tilt of her head, one that accepts no disagreement.

Even under this circumstance, Hannibal marvels at her superiority; a common man like Doctor Rose is no match for her. Now the man’s arms fall in resignation as Bedelia turns to leave; Hannibal manages to hide in the shadow at the very last moment. Luckily for him, Bedelia is too distracted to look around. Her heels reverberate loudly against the polished floor as her determined steps lead her straight to the main door.

The man does not go after her. A shame, Hannibal was looking forward to replenishing his pantry after all. He considers following her home himself but does not. It is consoling enough for him to know she will be sleeping in her own bed. Even if he wishes he could be there with her to comfort her.

 

The next day proves anything but productive for Hannibal, all his appointments more tiresome than usual. He is relieved when his last patient finally disappears behind the door which he locks promptly. His mind has lost some of its sharpness, preoccupied with possible repercussions for his intrusion last night. Never one to give his phone much regard, he checks it regularly during the day. He expects Bedelia to cancel the next appointment, or perhaps their appointments altogether. His mind exaggerates the possible consequences as he now sits in the quiet space of his office, the clock counting down the seconds with poignant ticks. His fingers focus on a pencil as he sharpens its end with a scalpel, shaving falling on the empty page. He continues to cut the wood casing until the graphite meets the sharp blade and breaks. Hannibal places the broken pencil on his desk without much care.

The phone does not ring.

 

His heart leaps immediately when she opens the door for him, her beauty like water for his parched mind. Her look is impeccable as per usual, but Hannibal senses a certain tiredness hidden behind her eyes. His awaken heart drops with heaviness; he does not wish to see her in any distress, ready to take on her burden as his own. But he knows better than to ask.

The session passes in mutual apprehension, non-specific questions met with equally inadequate responses while both avoid the issue that has set a wall of tension between them. It isn’t until the last minutes of the hour that Bedelia chooses to address the occurrence at the hotel bar.

“I believe we need to discuss what happened at the hotel,” she speaks, and Hannibal feels the bitterness of the memory rising in his throat. “I am your psychiatrist, Hannibal. You should not intrude on my life in such an impudent manner,” her voice and eyes are steel as she exerts her authority over him. “Your attachment to me is becoming an issue and might influence the effectiveness of your therapy,” she pauses, a tiniest of quiver in the corner of her lips.

“Perhaps I need to refer you to someone else.”

His still heavy heart shatters, static noise clouding his mind; the words gather at the top of his chest but do not amount to anything worth saying.

“I was being protective of you-” he falls back on his old reason, but Bedelia stops him with a mere shake of her head.

“Our time is up,” she concludes and uncrosses her legs, ready to leave her chair.

But Hannibal is reluctant to move, his gaze on his lap, like a school boy unable to cope with being reprimanded by his favourite teacher. A teacher he happens to be hopelessly in love with.

Bedelia stands up and makes her way towards the door. Hannibal anticipates her asking him to leave and is surprised when she stops by his chair.

“Red or white?” she asks, scrutinising his current demeanour up close, “Or perhaps a glass of beer?”

Her sharp tongue once again matching the ferocity of her mind, she’s magnificent; Hannibal cannot help but grin.

“I am fine with white wine, thank you,” he manages to utter, adjusting his jacket and finally getting on his feet.

Bedelia returns swiftly with two glasses, offering him one, then turns to look through the window at her garden. Hannibal stares at his glass as if searching for answers in the swirls of the liquid. They drink in silence, the tension of their session still weighing heavily on them, air somehow dense and making it hard to breathe. Hannibal inhales deeply, trying to clear the continuous babel in his mind.

“I apologise,” he speaks at last, the phrase that is normally so outlandish to him suddenly feeling right, “I should not have intruded on your evening.”

He takes a mouthful of his wine, unsure of the proper apology etiquette. Bedelia peruses his words and manner, no doubt assessing its sincerity.

“And I was looking out for you,” he adds when she continues to say nothing.

Her eyes narrow sceptically.

“I am certain you were looking out _not just for me_ ,” she retorts, but her face brightens still, “But I accept your apology.”

Hannibal smiles; it is a start. They return to their drink as silence falls anew, but the strain has been alleviated, the air beginning to clear between them. Still, he senses that Bedelia’s restlessness persists, some heaviness still holding her back. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots her fingers trembling slightly before she readjust her hold on the glass. Perhaps he is not the only cause of her distress, the notion strikes him suddenly and he recalls Bedelia’s dismissal of her former lover.

_Perhaps she really wanted it to work out._

His dormant anger stirs anew, this time directed at the man’s inadequacy. Doctor Rose could have never been right for her, Hannibal is certain she knew it herself, but it does not diminish her sadness. Instinctively, he reaches out and covers her hand with his. Bedelia startles but does not pull away; he can see her eyes flickering as she finds comfort in his touch.

“You are one of a kind, Bedelia and you should be treated accordingly,” he asserts, his hand still enveloping hers. A briefest flash of pink appears on her cheeks. “You deserve to be given everything,” Hannibal brings his declaration to a close and withdraws his hand. The gleam in Bedelia’s eyes dims at the loss of the caress.

“There is no need for such overstatements, Hannibal,” her voice is stern, but a timid smile lurks about her lips, “No one can offer _everything_.”

Hannibal smiles widely as his heart beats in eager anticipation. He cannot wait to prove her wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> The Four Seasons does have a pool side bar, but it is located on the roof (which Hannibal would hate even more); I have changed the location here for more efficient getaway route. Their wine list is not up to Hannibal's standards and they do not actually serve European beer, again creative liberty to highlight the shortcomings of Bedelia's date; I cannot imagine Hannibal drinking something like Corona.  
> The title comes from Romeo & Juliet: "Love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs." (I am terrible at titles, sorry).  
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are love ♥


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